Title: “Tell Me What You’re Craving”
Pairing: Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto x Reader
Tone: Cozy domestic fluff, soft love, quiet caretaking
Setting: Carmy’s apartment, late night — dim kitchen light, you’re in his sweatshirt, he’s barefoot with sleepy curls
It hits you out of nowhere.
One second you’re half-asleep on Carmy’s couch, legs curled under a blanket and some old Anthony Bourdain episode murmuring in the background and the next, you’re sitting up with a strange kind of urgency burning behind your ribs.
He’s in the kitchen, cleaning up from dinner, sleeves rolled to his elbows and the dim undercabinet light casting a golden glow over him. It’s almost midnight, but he’s still moving like he’s mid-shift.
You pad over quietly, barefoot in his socks, and lean against the counter.
“Carm?” you mumble sleepily.
He turns, drying his hands on a towel. “Yeah, babe?”
You pause dramatically. “I’m craving something.”
His brow lifts. “Okay… what are we talkin’? Sweet? Salty? Crunchy? Spicy?”
You pout. “I don’t know. Something… warm.”
He leans a hip against the counter, arms folding. “Warm, huh?”
“With cheese,” you add, as if you’ve just had a spiritual revelation. “Lots of cheese. And maybe bread. But like… buttery bread. Not dry.”
He stifles a laugh and steps closer. “So… basically comfort food at one in the morning?”
“Exactly,” you nod. “But not fancy. No micro herbs. Just something that tastes like a hug.”
He gives you this little crooked grin the one that only appears when he’s about to spoil you. “Alright. Sit down. I got you.”
“I want to.” He kisses your forehead. “Just stay right there and let me take care of it, okay?”
You settle onto the barstool, watching him move like he’s in his element. Calm. Certain. Soft.
He grabs a small pan, butter, some leftover sourdough, a hunk of cheese you didn’t even know he had stashed away. In minutes, the smell of melted butter and browning bread fills the air. He works quietly, brow furrowed with focus, but every once in a while he glances at you—just to check you’re still there. Like he’s making sure you don’t vanish.
When he plates it two perfectly golden, melty grilled cheese halves with a warm cup of tomato soup on the side he sets it in front of you like it’s a five-course tasting menu.
You take a bite and let out the kind of sound that makes him grin behind his hand.
“Oh my god,” you groan. “This is literally the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
He leans against the counter, sipping tea, watching you like you’re a miracle he didn’t expect to walk into his life.
“I knew you’d like it,” he says. “It’s the good kind of simple.”
You glance up at him, cheeks full, heart warm. “How do you always know exactly what I need?”
He shrugs, bashful, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just listen.”
You finish the sandwich, and he walks over, taking your plate and pressing a kiss to the top of your head like it’s instinct.
“Next time you crave something,” he murmurs, “just tell me. I’ll always make it for you.”
You smile sleepily. “Even if it’s something weird?”
“Especially if it’s something weird.”
And as he puts the dishes in the sink, you wrap your arms around his waist from behind, cheek resting between his shoulder blades.
The craving is gone. But the warmth stays.
Because when Carmen Berzatto feeds you, it’s never just food.
Writers Note: this one came to me out of the blue and I found it cute. As always like share comment ciao 🫶🏽
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